Tales from Vainqueur
by jikanet-tanaka
Summary: ...or Not Every Story Changes the Course of History. Series of ficlets written for the 2014 and 2015 RH gift exchanges. Spoilers for the end of the game.
1. Real and Imaginary

Eruca took Stocke to the east wing of the palace under the stupefied gazes of the guardsmen and servants.

Their stares were unnerving. His previous visits to Castle Granorg had happened under circumstances that had been so dire no one had stopped to notice just how similar he looked to the deceased prince. Now, there was no escaping it. Whispers followed him in every corridor and an old woman with gentle, lovely features fainted at the sight of him. Eruca had been quite distressed then, and only after interrogating her did he learn that the old woman had been their governess when they had been children.

"She's never been the same since Ernst died," Eruca had said. Her cheeks had then coloured at her mistake. Stocke couldn't fault her; she had trained herself to believe her brother had been gone for the past four years. Old habits died hard, after all.

The corridor they reached was richly decorated, with thick carpets that muffled the sounds of Stocke's footsteps. The torchlight here was replaced by the faint glow of some mechanical contraptions; Thaumachines, Stocke realized with a start. He supposed they were relics from the Royal Family Imperial's heritage that had been brought along by their ancestors in their exile.

The walls were adorned by large paintings, portraits mostly. The people they represented were austere; their eyes seemed to silently judge the two of them as they passed by. Eruca explained the history behind each and every of them as they walked through the corridor, accompanied by two of her guards and the ever faithful Marie.

The two guardsmen followed them well out of earshot, as Eruca instructed them. Like the rest of the castle, they had been sworn to secrecy as to Stocke's presence. She had not quite decided yet how she wanted to explain his striking resemblance to her long-gone brother to the rest of the court, and very much preferred to keep sordid rumours to a bare minimum. Stocke wholly agreed.

Stocke was certain that little of what Eruca was telling him would stick in his mind; with a wry grin, he realized he'd need to read up a bit on the subject to polish his family history later on. He was struck speechless, however, by the appearances of the first queens and kings of Granorg. Their long, pointed ears reminded him of a certain pair. Eruca did not comment on this, prompting Stocke to wonder if it was common knowledge for the Granorgite elite to know that their ancestors might have been not fully human.

The later portraits were different: their colours were more vibrant and the paint had not yet started to peel off. Some depicting a lovely blonde woman did appear a little worse for wear, however. Eruca's stoic composure seemed to break a little as Stocke asked her who she was.

"You can't remember?" she said, her voice wavering. "You really can't?"

Stocke looked away, meeting Marie's eyes by inadvertence. She looked stricken as well.

"No, I can't." Stocke peered closer at the portrait, trying to dredge from the depths of his mind some forgotten memory. He shook his head.

"You didn't remember much about her in the first place." Eruca sighed. "Still, I always pestered you for details. I was so little when she died."

"Our mother?" Stocke said, turning back to her. "That's our mother?"

Eruca bit down her lip, then nodded. Stocke looked upon the portrait again.

"I remember her dying when I was young as well," he finally said. "I guess _that_ didn't need to be changed."

Eruca wrung her hands together. "Moth – Protea moved most of her portraits to the cellars when she ascended to the throne. That's why they are such in poor condition."

"We could have someone to look about restoring them."

Eruca smiled at him, the first smile she'd given him even since they started their little tour. "This is what I believe as well." She moved to the next painting, her expression turning dark. Stocke's eyes followed her motion, and he felt himself frowning at the sight of the man depicted in the painting.

"Do you…?" Eruca began as she saw his expression change. "Do you recognize him?"

"No." But there was something about the man's eyes – the cold blue, the shape of them – that set him on edge. The father he remembered had a rounder face, a different hair colour and dark, heavy bags under his eyes. He looked older and more world-weary than King Victor of Granorg – and evidently less handsome. _Of course_, Stocke thought. _He couldn't resist making some changes. Out of spite._

"Let's move on to another portrait." Eruca said. "I'll tell you about him one day, but not now. I simply cannot bear it."

For a split second, Stocke wished he could have reached to her. But he couldn't. He'd never been keen on affectionate gestures. Raynie was starting to grind down his defenses a bit, but there was still a long way to go before… before what, actually? Had Ernst even been one for hugs and kisses and holding hands? Would Eruca find it strange if he tried to comfort her in any way?

Stocke shooed those thoughts away, and continued to follow his sister without any word. From the portraits on the wall, their father's eyes bore down on them. A distant hate resurfaced from within Stocke. This, he expected, had not been forcibly planted inside his mind. It had been something borne wholly of his own experiences. _He's dead now_, Stocke reminded himself. _Both in reality and in my own fake world. _The anger slightly receded. He didn't need it.

He, Eruca and Marie, finally arrived at a large painting showing five people, three adults and two children. Stocke's breath hitched in his throat.

"I guess you don't need me to tell you that this handsome little boy is you," Eruca said as she pointed to one of the two blond toddlers in the painting. The boy was dressed in a fine red velvet doublet, and wore an expression far too grave for one his age. It left Stocke oddly amused. "The baby in Mother's lap is me." Young Eruca was all golden curls and white frills. "And this man next to Father is…"

Stocke didn't need to be told. He glanced at the young man – _teenager_, really – in the portrait, trying to find in his wide, fearful eyes, in his slouched posture, in his clasped, bony hands some bits and parts of the crazed _creature_ that had been trying to kill them all only some months priors. The only image his mind could instead conjure was that of a broken old man crying out to him, begging not to be left alone. Something in his mouth suddenly tasted bitter.

"I don't remember much about him as well," Eruca said. "You were closer to him, but I can't say you talked much about him after he disappeared. You were just… so angry at _everything_."

A faint buzzing had begun to ring in Stocke's ears. It was not a pleasant feeling. "Could we go somewhere else?" he found himself telling Eruca. "I'm starting to get a headache."

"Of course," his sister said, and they headed for her study, guards and Marie in tow. The soldiers mercifully stayed outside as he and Eruca sat down, while Marie left to bring refreshments. Not a moment later, she was back, with an herbal tea for Stocke and a small glass of something golden that smelled rather pleasant for Eruca.

"Cider with honey, Your Majesty," Marie said with a wink.

Stocke looked at his sister with a quirk of the eyebrow.

"Oh, shush, you two," the young queen answered. "You know it's perfect for these chilly winter nights."

"We haven't said anything, my lady," Marie quipped. "I'll leave you two alone for now." She bowed to the queen then headed outside the study.

"I'm grateful for her companionship," Eruca said with a soft smile. "I will have to find myself some new ladies-in-waiting after I get married. Preferably from my husband's family." She sighed. She obviously hadn't meant for the last words to sound so bitter.

"Are you getting married?" Stocke asked, a note of amusement creeping in his voice.

"I should. The realm needs an heir. And of course…" Her unsaid words hung heavily in the air.

Stocke himself had realized lately that he had gotten terrified of being too intimate with Raynie. She understood her fears, and never pushed him for more than they currently had, but…

_No wonder our family is so messed-up._

"There are many candidates vying for my hand," Eruca said, her fingers circling the top of her glass in an absentminded gesture. "I don't know which to choose."

"You don't need to do this so quickly. Give it some time."

"Should I?" Eruca turned her gaze on him. "I don't think I have this luxury."

"What I mean is that you should at least find someone you're comfortable with," Stocke replied. "Get someone you like, at least. Don't just think about this in matters of duties and favours to your court." The thought of Eruca in a loveless union was unbearable. It was strange to find himself so protective of someone he didn't even know two years ago.

Eruca gave a little laugh. "Weren't you the man would once told me to stick to my duty no matter what?"

Stocke answered with a soft look. "Things were different back then. I was just a stranger offering advice. Not a concerned big brother."

The smile she gave him then was brighter than the sun. With watery eyes, she reached for his hand. Stocke interlaced his fingers with her, gently squeezing them back.

* * *

**Written for the 2014 RH fandom Christmas exchange, for catteries.**


	2. Traditions

The more things changed, they more they stayed the same, Marco mused as he watched the ink drip from his quill onto the old paper.

He had been the one to do inventories for his old mercenary group as well. Back then, Marco had readily volunteered for this task – they'd been the rough-and-tumble sort, his old mercenary buddies, not the kind to derive some interest in that kind of chore – and now that he had joined the Alistellian military, it hadn't taken long for him to figure out that he had the best head for sums and figures in their little unit. Sergeant Stocke had shown some promise as well on that count, but Marco had caught him snoring over their ledgers quite a number of times, leaving the young medic as the best candidate for the job. Counting their supplies – making sure they wouldn't run out of rations or medicine or pointy things to stab at their enemies – reminded Marco of simpler times. Back home, he had been the only one among his siblings who preferred helping their mother run the household to working in the fields.

The light of the candles was dwindling down. Marco rubbed weary eyes, yawning. His butt was starting to hurt. No sunlight filtered this deep into Alma Mine, and while there was a lot of coming and going through the small room they used for storage, none of Marco's comrades had thought of stopping by to tell him the time of day. Perhaps it was better to just take a break. Else, he'd be sure he would see numbers and letters floating in his dreams tonight as well.

Marco sighed as he slid out of the chair, massaging the cramps out of his short legs with a wince. He wobbled out of the storage room, smiling and shaking his head as he caught sight of two of his comrades hoisting up a rather large crate. The necks of a few bottles stuck out of the box. Where they had found these, Marco had no idea. Had they stumbled upon a hidden Granorgite cache that hadn't been noticed by the new occupants of the mine? If it was the case, then they'd better be very careful smuggling this from under Lieutenant Rosch's nose.

They flashed Marco unsure grins and he gave them a subtle thumbs-up. The two soldiers mouthed an enthusiastic '_thanks, man!_' to Marco before scampering deeper into the mine, where they had converted a large open area into a temporary mess hall. Marco watched them go with a rueful smile. He made a note to go check on them tomorrow morning with the hangover remedy he'd perfected in the years he'd known Raynie before heading for the entrance of the mines. A bit of fresh air would do him some good.

To Marco's surprise, the sun had not completely gone over the horizon. He inhaled the cold, crispy air of the evening and crinkled his eyes, watching the last bits of sunlight bathe the mountains in a soft orange glow. Laughter and songs filled his ears; his new comrades were drunk with happiness over their victory against the Granorgites, the dull task of setting up camp not even raining down a bit on their parade. Their first victory as a newly-minted unit, Marco realized. He remembered how giddy he had been back when he'd been the one in their shoes. His old friends from the mercenary company had paid for all his expenses for a night and they laughed and exchanged stories until the early hours of the morning. Despite everything he'd ingurgitated, Marco had still ended being the only one able to stand on his feet by the next day. Raynie, in contrast, had seemed half on the brink of death. He had been the one to take care of her, learning the hard way just how legendary her hangovers could be. They had been inseparable ever since.

The memory made him smile, and so Marco set out through the camp in search of his old friend. He found her near a campfire, around which Sergeant Stocke, Lieutenant Rosch and that young recruit named Kiel were sitting.

"Hey, guys, how are y– " Marco's greeting was cut short as he caught sight of what Raynie was doing. She running around the campfire, her mouth wide open with her tongue sticking out. Kiel's cheeks were puffing up with silent laughter, but Rosch was burying his face into his hands, sighing. And as always, it was impossible to decipher Stocke's expression, what with half of his face hidden by his scarf and most of the other half covered by that impossible mop of blond hair.

"Raynie," Marco began, "what are you doing?"

Raynie stopped and gave Marco the biggest, dumbest grin. "I'm trying to catch a snowflake with my tongue! Watch!"

Marco rubbed the bridge of his nose, groaning, before looking down at his gloves. Specks of white accumulated on the soft brown leather. He hadn't even noticed it had begun to snow. Frowning, Marco glanced up and down at Raynie. "You should cover up a bit, you know," he told her. "This isn't Cygnus."

Raynie just grinned some more. "I know. I'm not used to this whole winter stuff yet, cut me some slack." She twirled on the spot and giggled like a little girl instead of the battle-hardened mercenary she truly was. "It's gonna be great when there'll be more snow. It'll be fun!"

"And cold," Marco said. "Like… _Alistel _cold, Raynie. Alistel _winter _cold."

Kiel gave a conspiratorial smile "You think this is bad? It gets even worse up here in the mountains. My hometown isn't far from here and you would never believe the amount of snow we get! I was surprised when I first got to the capital. The snowfalls are nowhere as huge."

"Well, I was surprised when I first got out of the capital," Rosch said. "I'd never thought snow could be so… _white_."

"Yeah, with the fumes it all gets sludgey and brown," Kiel replied, not without some wistfulness. "And there's so little of it! It's sad. Celebrating Noah's Day really isn't the same without a good feet of fresh snow piling up by your doorstep."

Marco nodded. It seemed to snow less and less with each passing winter. He wondered if it was an effect of the desertification process going through the middle of the continent. He hoped not.

"Oh, yeah, Noah's Day," Raynie said. To Marco's great relief, she had stopped pacing like a kid on a sugar rush. "It's a little before New Year's Day, isn't it? Around the time of the Winter Solstice?"

"It's the day the Prophet declared Alistel's independence," Kiel said; his eyes were a little starry. "It's the best day of the year! I remember as a kid that they'd get us fruits – like fresh fruits, _oranges and lemons_, I mean, we never got this stuff otherwise! – and we'd eat meat pies and sausages and there's the big winter market and –"

"I remember some people celebrating Noah's Day in my village, too," Marco said. His memories were nowhere near as cheery as Kiel's. The longest night in the year was a time of remembrance for the people of his town. They would hold a mass under the stars, standing in the cold and the snow with only a couple of bonfires to warm them up, praying for the souls of the recently departed. With each passing year, the services had gotten longer and longer and the prayers, a little more desperate – the last few times, Marco had found himself unable to stomach the growing list of names so he had just stopped coming altogether. He shivered. He wondered how many people they would honour this year.

"There weren't a lot of people who cared about Noah's Day back in Cygnus," Raynie said, bringing Marco out of his recollections. "The Winter Solstice was a big deal, though. The fruit merchants gave us street kids pomegranates and watermelons and we'd eat and eat until we all got sick to our stomachs. And then the adults would read _poetry_." She rolled her eyes. "It would get so boring, but they forced you to stay awake 'cause else the bad spirits would get you."

"My mom thought the same," Rosch said. "Except she made us pray instead of, y'know, read poetry." He snorted. "I think I'd have preferred poetry. Less rough on the knees."

"It's not so bad," Kiel said. "It wouldn't feel right otherwise. I'd rather have sore knees than have evil spirits going for my soul." He gave a visible shudder at this.

Raynie shook her head, a smile teasing her lips, before she turned to Stocke. The Sergeant, of course, had been conspicuously silent throughout all this reminiscing. "What about you, Stocke? Did your parents force you on your knees to pray the bad spirits away?"

For a moment, Marco thought the Sergeant had dozed off, but to his surprise the man appeared to be awake. He could see Stocke's shoulders moving in a shrug.

"I don't remember much," he mumbled. "We didn't pray to Noah, but I recall that the people in my town celebrated something called the Festival of Light. For three days and three nights, we'd light up candles so the sun could be born again after the solstice and then we'd–" He frowned and stopped abruptly.  
"And?" Raynie prompted him. "What else did you do?"

"My family didn't care much about Noah's Day," Stocke said. "My… father wasn't keen on the Prophet. And he wasn't one for superstitions." Something strange had slipped into his tone. There was nothing odd about seeing that kind of expression on the Sergeant's face – he frowned far more often than he smiled, after all – but this time, there seemed to be a chink in Stocke's apathetic facade. A second later and the ripple of emotion was gone. Marco wondered if he had imagined it.

Rosch ran a hand alongside his jaw. "Lighting up candles, eh? I remember the Granorgites doing something alongside these lines around the time of the Solstice too."

Kiel stared at Rosch with big eyes. "Really? Why would the Granorgites celebrate Noah's Day? Aren't they just a bunch of…?"

_Heathens_, Marco helpfully supplied in his mind. _The word you're looking for is heathens. _

Rosch chuckled. "They don't recognize Noah's Day as a holiday, but they do celebrate the Winter Solstice, that much I remember. There were a couple of Granorgite families living in the Third Ward, not far from where I grew up. I don't think they had been there for long. I guess they had fled the tyrant king." A weariness seemed to weigh down Rosch's next words. "Around this time of the year, at best their houses would be pelted with rotten eggs." He sighed. "And at worse…."

Kiel's eyes had grown large and horrified in the firelight. "That's terrible! Why would people do that?"

Rosch's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "Same reason why we're killing them."

An awkward silence followed. Kiel shifted on his spot, obviously miserable, while Raynie kicked at a rock, her features settling on a serious expression that was at odds with the Raynie Marco had grown to know. To him, her troubled look was worse than Rosch's words, in a sense. He almost wanted her to chase after snowflakes again.

"My hometown was close to the border," Stocke finally said, cutting through the tension. "That's why we followed old Granorgite traditions. They aren't that much different from our own, really."

"Yeah," Rosch said half-heartedly. "I guess that makes sense."

"It wasn't so long ago that our two people were one," Stocke continued. "Things have changed, but in a way, we're still very much the same."

Kiel was hugging his knees; he suddenly seemed very small and young to Marco's eyes.

"But we have to beat them, right, to win the war?" the kid said. "Or else they'll just kill us. I don't want them to get to my hometown. I wanna celebrate a bunch more Noah's Days with my folks. I… I wanna see everyone again…"

"You will," Stocke said. "We'll put an end to this mess and get you home. You'll see."

"Y-yeah… I believe you, Sarge. And after it's all over, I'll – I'll invite you guys." Kiel's voice had gotten a little wobbly. "Back home, I mean. We'll have a true Noah's Day, like when I was a kid. We'll eat meat pies and we'll – we'll get some pomegranates for you, Raynie, and we'll play in the snow and we'll spend the night reading poetry if – if that's what you'd rather do, Lieutenant. If it's not this year, then we'll do it the next. Or the one after." Kiel rubbed at his eyes – had he been crying, Marco wondered with a start? Still, his smile did not take long to be back in full force. "It doesn't matter when, really. It'll be _fun_."

Raynie shot Kiel back a grin. "Sounds like a plan to me. You in, Marc, Stocke?"

"Of course," Marco replied. It would be better than going back to his village, that much he knew. He had a lot of dead people to answer for, now…

"I don't see why we can't," Rosch said. "It'll be something to look forward to."

"Something to look forward to," Stocke repeated. The words had been said so softly Marco could almost not believe they had come out of the Sergeant's mouth. "Yeah. Something to look forward to, after the war is over. That's good for me."

Marco looked up to the sky, feeling the snowflakes melting on his cheeks. _Yeah_, he thought. _That's good for me too._

* * *

_Written for Quicksilver-ink for the 2015 Radiant Historia Fanworks Exchange._


	3. A Matter of Etiquette

"…I need to present you to my court, you know?"

Stocke had been pacing back and forth, watching Eruca pour over paperwork, for the better part of a half-hour now. At her words, he stopped in his tracks, cocking one brow in a silent reply. In the dimming light of her study, his expression was hard to see, but she could feel the amusement and annoyance coming off him in waves.

"I'm serious," Eruca said. "People have been talking."

"Let them talk," was his muttered response.

Eruca knew he was thinking otherwise; Stocke acted as if he had little knowledge of the intrinsicalities of the Granorgite court, but Eruca was not fooled. Whether that understanding came from his training as a Specint agent or from half-remembered memories… she was not so sure. She did not dare to hope for the latter.

"You know it will have to happen," Eruca said softly. "I can arrange for one of my tailors to make something for you." None of Ernst's old clothes would fit Stocke now. Her brother had shot up almost half a foot since that fateful day, five years ago, when he had been stolen from her. And the rags from his old Specint days would not do, clearly. The crimson had faded to a dull brown and the edges of the fabric were starting to get frayed. And the abundance of belts – why did he need so many? – would only make her ladies titter behind their fans.

A half-smile ghosted on Stocke's lips. "You would be cruel to the poor man or woman." He passed a hand through his long, unruly hair. "It would take a lot of effort to make me look presentable for your court, I fear."

Eruca pursed her mouth and rolled her eyes. _You don't want to be subjected to this torment, you mean… _"We can whip up something," she said, the smile evident in her tone. "Do not underestimate the powers at my disposal. I am the Queen of Granorg."

"What about my manners? You wouldn't want me to ruffle some important feathers, would you?"

"You _know _your manners," Eruca replied. Now, he was just _toying _with her. "You just choose not to display them." She steepled her hands together and watched him, her eyes twinkling with uncharacteristic mischief. "Although, having you in your… _natural _state might have its perks as well."

Stocke leaned back against a bookshelf. "Oh? Who do you need to scare off?"

She waved a hand. "Suitors. Unsuitable suitors." She sighed. "After the fiasco with that dearest stepmother of ours, I thought to cherish my celibacy for a while."

"I'm sure the realm will cherish it as well. Marriage is something that you must consider carefully. It's not a choice to be made with, well…" Stocke made a vague hand gesture. Eruca hid a smile behind her hands, unwilling to show him that she had understood his second meaning.

"Indeed," she said. "I am only eighteen, still a little girl according to some in my court." She cocked her head to the side as she looked at him. "Speaking of… how old are you, anyway?"

Stocke shrugged. "How would I know?" His eyes then narrowed. "_No_. Don't even think about it."

"But I haven't said anything."

"But you were thinking it." Stocke's half-grin had gone, but his eyes were crinkling in a smile; there was something boyish, something of the old Ernst in his expression. "I'm not getting married. It'd be a recipe for disaster, really. I'd only make some poor lady of your court a very sad bride."

"Well, whoever who would want to win your hand would need to keep their wits about them, that much I know," Eruca said. "So far, I haven't met anyone who has that sort of patience. Maybe I keep my standards too high?"

"Make them higher," Stocke said, deadpan.

"Well, I said I wanted to avoid a repeat of the Protea business, didn't I?" Eruca leaned forward with a smile. "But this is not important right now. I'll introduce you to my court and –"

"_Eruca _–" Stocke began in a warning tone.

"– you just have to act your usual, charming self." Stocke's eyes widened – not by much, but just enough so Eruca could see it. It almost made her want to laugh. "Won't that be something fit for the history books?"

Stocke shrugged, and Eruca knew he was pondering over the idea. It wasn't exactly a politically sound move, but she was past caring. Eruca felt half an excitable child again at the thought of her brother standing by her side once more after all these years, stoically looming over anyone who would have the nerve to march up to her just to look at her the wrong way. His years in the military had caused him to develop such a lovely glare; it would be a waste not to use it.

Stocke seemed to have come to a similar conclusion. "Well, if you're willing to make concessions…"

Eruca smiled, this time more warmly. "Of course I am." She then turned up her nose. "But the belts have to go."

* * *

_Written for Alex for the 2015 Radiant Historia Fanworks Exchange._


	4. History As it Should Be

"You're... you're not mad at me?"

It took Sonja a bit of time to answer; as always, she was quite focused on her work. Finally, she put her tools aside and removed her goggles, giving Rosch a strange look. "Why would I be angry with you?"

Rosch glanced at the blackened and ruined piece of scrap affixed to his left arm. "I've made a mess out of your brother's work," he replied mutely. "And now you're gonna have to nearly start from scratch to rebuild it."

Sonja's eyes rolled heavenward. "Pish-posh. You came back alive and that's what important. Besides, some parts are salvageable. And I guess…" Sonja bit down her lip as she passed a hand through her short brown hair, "and I guess it will give me the occasion to try and improve on my brother's design."

"I'm sure you can," said Rosch. "Uh, I mean, improve on what Rowan did. You're really smart… your brother always said so."

Her features were illuminated by a genuine, but fleeting smile. Before Sonja could reply, however, the door to her office burst open, and a harried-looking woman wearing the colours of the medical division rushed inside.

"Sonja!" she exclaimed. "That kid! He did it again!"

Sonja rose from her seat, exasperation written all over her face. "What? Again? Didn't we put someone at the entrance of the infirmary to keep watch?"

"He gave 'em the slip somehow! How the hell he managed that, well, I don't know!"

Rosch struggled to stand up. The wounds he had sustained a few weeks past had mostly healed, but one of his ankles still gave him trouble. "What's going on?" he asked the two women. "What's that about a kid running away?"

"He's not exactly a kid," said Sonja. "He's about my age, actually." Under Rosch's insistent gaze, she groaned, adding, "He's the sole survivor of that rookie squad… you know, the one that got slaughtered at the battle where you were injured, Rosch."

"What…? Someone managed to survive?"

"Barely," said Sonja. "I've never seen something like it. I really thought he was a goner when they brought him to me."

"And now he's managed to escape the infirmary three times in two weeks," said the other medic. "What's his deal anyway?"

Sonja rubbed her temples with a sigh. "He's in a state of shock, Marion. He's in no condition to act rationally."

"Then, we've got to find him before he does something stupid," the woman named Marion said. She offered Rosch a sheepish grin. "Sorry for barging in and interrupting, by the way."

"It's okay," Rosch told her. "We were about done, right, Sonja?"

"Mh-hm," answered Sonja. Obviously, she believed that the safety of her wayward patient was a more pressing worry at the moment. "Please come back at the end of the week. Until then, I'll see with Fennel what we should do about your Gauntlet."

The morning after, Rosch once more descended to the lower level to visit the medical wing. Many members of his unit had been severely wounded in the battle that had taken place in Lazvil Hills, two weeks ago. Thankfully enough, they were recovering fast, leaving no doubt that they would all be fighting as a team again soon.

Upon entering the infirmary, Rosch was immediately swarmed by his convalescing squadmates. They sat together and swapped stories, the relief of being alive evident in the laughter they shared. Out of the corner of his eye, however, Rosch noticed a young man sitting by his lonesome on his cot. Half of his face was covered by bandages, and the other half could barely be seen from under long, disheveled blond bangs. Every time Rosch had visited the infirmary over the past days, the young man had been there; not once Rosch had seen him take his eyes off his book.

"Who's that guy?" Rosch asked, jutting his chin at the blond youth.

A sense of unease thick as Thaumatech fumes immediately filled the air. "You know how they sent that one green squad to the front lines?" one of Rosch's friends replied. "Well, he's the only one remaining."

"I heard it was a bloodbath," someone else added. "The higher-ups used them as cannon fodder, I tell ya."

"Kid's must have one hell of a guardian angel to still be around," another mused.

"Shit…" said Rosch. "Then, he's the one who keeps flying the coop?"

Rosch's statement was followed by nervous chuckles from all of his friends. "Yeah," said the first of Rosch's comrades who had spoken. "I guess he really doesn't like it much here, huh?"

Rosch took a closer look at the blond soldier. The young man had not budged an inch, but there was now a slight frown forming on his brow. With a grunt, Rosch got to his feet.

"I'm gonna see if I can talk to him," he told his buddies. "It can't be healthy, dealing with that kind of crap on your own…"

The members of his squad mumbled their assent. Wincing, Rosch staggered his way toward the young man. The injured soldier barely lifted his head when Rosch stopped by his cot.

"H-Hey," said Rosch, "uh, d'you mind if I sit next to you?"

This time, he did earn himself a reaction from the blond youth; the latter peered at Rosch from under his bangs, a guileless sort of confusion settling on his face for a brief moment.

"…why?" he finally replied.

"I was just thinking you could use some company," Rosch answered. "Us soldiers, we oughta stick together, right?"

Again, the young man remained silent for a while, possibly mulling over Rosch's words. "If you say so," was his eventual reply.

Rosch managed to school his features into a grin. From behind, he knew his squadmates were watching their ongoing conversation very carefully. "Good! My name's Rosch. I'm a corporal. What about you?"

"…Stocke. You can call me Stocke."

"Stocke, huh? D'you come from the countryside or were you born in the capital?"

The blond youth broke eye contact. He went taut as a bowstring, nearly ripping a page out of his book by accident.

"Oh, uh…" Rosch swallowed nervously. Obviously, the topic was a sore one for the kid. "You're not much in a mood to chat, are you?"

"I'm… tired…" Stocke replied laconically.

"Alright," mumbled Rosch. "I'm gonna leave you be. Just… just remember that if you ever need someone to talk to… well, I'll be there. We're all stuck fighting in this goddamn war together, after all."

Again, Stocke's only uncovered eye stared ahead vacantly. He did not say a word as Rosch wobbled away, red-faced with embarrassment.

More days passed before Rosch returned to the medical wing. His stomach did somersaults as climbed down the stairs; maintenance sessions on his Gauntlet had never been a walk in the park, mostly because Sonja tended to slip into those strangely… _manic_ moods when she had a wrench in hand. To his great surprise, the basement floor was even more of a cluttered mess than usual. Soldiers and staff members of the medical division scurried about the place, barely acknowledging Rosch's presence.

The young corporal soon came upon a familiar face. "Sonja?" he asked as he approached the medic. "Is something happening?"

Sonja met back his gaze, her eyes filled with distress. "What do you think? That rookie soldier – he ran off again!" She buried her face into her hands, letting out a little whine. "He came to me with one of the deepest head wounds I'd ever seen, three broken ribs and a fever that took three days to break. I can't have him wandering around like this! Who knows what will happen to him?"

"They'll find him," Rosch reassured her. Even to his ears, the words sounded hollow. "He's gonna be fine, you'll see."

"He's _my_ patient. I'd like to help him, I really would, but every time he pulls a stunt like that, my superiors get on my case a bit more and – and – I just… _can't_. I can't deal with this anymore…" Sonja punctuated the end of her sentence with a choked sob.

The sight of her tear-filled eyes was like a punch to Rosch's guts. "You could take some time off," he suggested weakly. "They'd understand, considering the circumstances—"

"There's a war going on," snapped Sonja. "And Prophet damns me, but I won't stand around doing nothing while people are dying. I won't be _useless_." She crossed her arms against her chest and scowled at Rosch. "Are you coming? Maybe doing some maintenance on your Gauntlet will help clear my mind."

"S-Sure," said Rosch. "Lead the way."

She spent the next hours working on Rosch's mechanical arm in sullen silence. The young corporal tried not to think too hard about the deep, dark bags under her eyes and the sickly pallor of her skin. Finally, Sonja gave Rosch his leave, with clear instructions to come back when she would receive the necessary components to finish the job. The medical wing had slightly quieted down when Rosch stepped out of her office. Still, it soon became apparent that the runaway patient had not been found. Rosch had to hand it to the guy; he really had a knack for stealth.

Which was why Rosch was so flabbergasted when he later caught sight of him sitting alone in a corner of the castle courtyard.

A bizarre, invisible force seemed to nudge Rosch toward the blond youth. Upon noticing the other man approaching, Stocke startled, tensing as if he expected a fight to break out. His uncovered eye – barely visible under that impossible mop of blond hair – was brimming with cold animosity.

"Whoa!" said Rosch, taking a cautious step backward. "Calm down, I didn't mean to sneak up on you!"

Stocke's shoulders slumped forward; in an instant, the young soldier had gone limp, like a puppet which strings had just been cut.

"You okay?" Rosch inquired. "D'you want me to get some help or…?"

"No," Stocke enunciated firmly. "I'm fine."

Rosch eyed the spot next to Stocke. "Uh, can I sit here for a bit?" He racked his brain to find a suitable excuse. "My ankle starts killing me whenever I stand for too long."

After a while, Stocke answered with a faint, "…sure."

"Thanks!" Rosch plopped down on the bench. "Ah, it's great to get a bit of fresh air, eh?" Undeterred by Stocke's lack of response, Rosch added, "I get ya. Staying cooped up in the infirmary for too long can get to you."

"Yeah," mumbled Stocke.

"But next time you want to get out, you should ask permission, you know? My friend Sonja – she's the one who's been taking care of you – well, she's worried sick. Why do you keep escaping, anyway?"

Stocke's expression darkened. "I can use my own magic to heal myself. The medics are overworked, they don't need to waste more of their precious time on me."

"That's where you'd be wrong!" Rosch countered. "Sonja tells me there's nothing a professional healer hates more than an amateur butting in. If you don't know _precisely_ what you're doing, then you might screw things up and end up in an even worst state." Rosch rubbed his jaw in contemplation. "Or at least that's what she says."

Stocke levelled an empty gaze to Rosch. "I see."

"She knows her stuff, Sonja. Her whole family… they're all geniuses or something." Rosch pointed to what remained of his Gauntlet. "Like her brother Rowan. He's the one who built me this." He ignored the encroaching sense of grief brought about by the mere mention of the man's name. Now was not the time to wallow in misery; Rosch had to stay strong, for Sonja's sake.

Stocke's expression betrayed a hint of interest as he examined the prosthetic. Then, his brows furrowed. "Rowan? As in, the director of the Thaumatech division? The one who—"

"The one who got killed two months ago, yeah," completed Rosch.

The blood drained from Stocke's face. "Her brother… _died_… two months ago…" His hands had started shaking. "Her brother died two months ago and I… I kept… _I kept_—"

"Hey!" Rosch put a hand on Stocke's shoulder. The blond youth stiffened at the touch, but he did not look at Rosch; his gaze seemed directed at something the young corporal could not see. "You couldn't know. Don't feel bad about it, she wouldn't hold it against you anyway. She… she understands what you're going through. That's why she wants you to get better." He gave Stocke's back a light pat. "But to do that, you need to listen to her and get proper rest, you know?"

Stocke was slightly rocking back and forth on his seat. "I can't afford to wait for so long." The words had tumbled out of his mouth in quick succession, his voice barely sounding above a whisper. "There's a war going on…"

Rosch fought the urge to slap his palm on his forehead. "You_ too? _Why is everyone springing this argument on me lately? You're no use to anybody in this state. Just… just focus on your recovery, okay?"

"'No use', huh…?" Stocke repeated sotto voce. "Yeah, I get it…"

"Wait!" said Rosch. "That's not what I meant!" Despite his best efforts, he had found himself nearly shouting. The other people passing through the courtyard sent them suspicious glances, and Rosch could feel his cheeks heating up under their scrutiny. He cleared his throat before continuing in a mutter, "Anyway, why is it so important that you be of use to someone, huh?"

"That's how it is," said Stocke. There was a strangely mechanical quality to his voice, as if he was just parroting someone else's assertions. "That's how the world goes."

"No," Rosch spoke sharply. "That's not how it is. I can't – I _won't_ believe that's how things work." He stood up, the movement startling Stocke out of his daze. "No one's useless. That's a crappy way to see things."

Stocke's expression was inscrutable. "The only reason I've had my wounds treated free of charge is because I'm a soldier. Otherwise…"

"Well, _Sonja_ would have treated your wounds regardless of who you are and what it is that you do," Rosch interrupted him. "She fought and fought to keep you alive – all because she believed your life was worth saving. And her brother—" Rosch drew a deep breath to keep his voice steady as he spoke of Rowan, "her brother was the same. He built this Gauntlet for me, even though the brass was against it. He didn't think a… a… _crippled_ rookie was useless, like they all did. He thought my life was worth something beyond any possible use I might have."

This time, Stocke did not turn his gaze away as Rosch spoke. The young man's face displayed an open, almost innocent sort of bewilderment. Without the crease deepening between his brows and the lines of stress showing at the corners of his mouth, he suddenly appeared much younger – much like the age he was supposed to be, in fact.

"Then, I…" Stocke croaked, "I should go apologize to your friend. She… she sounds like a good person. The kind of person who doesn't deserve that kind of treatment."

Rosch's features softened. "Yeah, she's really something else. And like I said, she gets it. You've suffered a huge loss too. I remember when I lost my arm… she stayed with me every step of the way. She didn't have to, but she did."

"Mhm. There's some people like that in the world. And sometimes you don't have to look very far to find them." Stocke's eye crinkled in a smile. A hint of amusement flickered in its blue-green depths as he stared intently at Rosch.

The latter coughed, going even more crimson. "Uh, s-sure. L-Let's get going."

And, somewhere in a dimension that existed beyond the fabric of time, a pair of children smiled as the course of the world edged closer to the thin golden thread of true history – history as it should be.

* * *

_A/N: Written for Svirdilu for the 2016 RH Fanwork Exchange._


End file.
